So, yeah… it’s been a while since I posted anything. I’ve been thinking about New Year’s Resolutions and just in case I decide one of my resolutions is to resume blogging, I thought I should see if everything is still working. It is.

WordPress is updated and it took most of the afternoon to rid the place of spam comments. I’m not sure I got them all. I also updated the spam blocker.

Oddly enough, I did not answer “y’all” to the first question. It’s still “you guys” most of the time even though I’ve lived in the South for over 40 years after growing up in SW Colorado. So, the general geographic area is OK, but the shading is all wrong. I have never lived more than 10 miles east of the Texas border. I have never been to Columbus GA, I drove through Mobile AL once about 20 years ago, and visited Montgomery AL for the first time this past September.

I was so surprised by the results that I’ve taken the test several times. My very first results were Birmingham, Montgomery, Mobile. When I answered “y’all”, I got Jackson, Birmingham, Columbus. The results can’t be compared exactly, because the questions vary a bit each time.

So many things to question about this test. First, the ultimate map puts me so firmly in the South when more than half my answers to questions were accompanied by small maps that either orange or light blue all over. Two other questions yielded maps that were decidedly blue in the area the test decides I’m from, my choice of “you guys” being the prime example.

Several cousins took the test and we compared the results on Facebook to further reduce the scientific validity of this whole thing. It was fun. Some of the results were exactly where the person lives now and has for his/her whole life, along with their parents. Where the results got interesting were among those of us who were born well away from where we now live. Even though we don’t perceive our speech changing all that much, the fact that there chinks the test noted but classified in ways that stuck us as odd is interesting. Interesting without much depth, but I am noting the results in the genealogy file just for kicks.

Let’s do this one at a time… and slowly. Next weakness to be admitted between 5/4/2032 and 5/4/3032.

Today I admit that I’m no good at driving a vehicle towing another vehicle… ever. At any time. Or place. I can do it if you make me and if there’s no one else available. But I won’t ever do it to anyone’s satisfaction.

It would be durn handy to blame this lack of ability on me being female, but I’ve witnessed males that aren’t any better at it than I am. I really feel sorry for those guys because they can’t get out of doing this as easily as I can.

Oh yeah, I do NOT mind playing the “but I’m a girl” card when it’s to my advantage. In exchange, I don’t mind guys playing the “but I’m a guy” card occasionally. (Occasionally… because I’m a girl and can also play the feminist card. See how this works? Yes… I knew you would

Backstory: Our yard isn’t that big, but it has this ditch near the street. It was always a problem to mow, but since the city “cleaned” the ditch it’s much worse. It’s never been doable on a riding lawn mower. It’s been a few years since either my husband or myself have been able to mow the ditch with a push mower and now the city has made even that impossible no matter how young and strong the wielder of the mower might be.

To readers that know my husband, it’s no surprise that he tried to mow this small area with a riding lawn mower anyway.

Several times. Since the last time he tried it resulted in neighbors pulling the overturned lawnmower off him, he really has been more careful. Really. This time, he just got the lawnmower stuck and wanted me to pull it out with the pickup while he guided it around the tree guarding the ditch.

And I DID IT!!! Yay me! But before I got into the truck (after carefully surveying the situation) I extracted several promises from him. One is that he will never ever try to mow that part of the ditch. The second was that he will either get one of the (at least two, maybe more) weed-eaters that we own fixed and use them instead.

He’s off right now seeing about getting a weed-eater in operating order.

The third promise I asked for… well, he didn’t promise, so I won’t elaborate.

I get the soup one. After all, I’m the person who thinks the grid on a waffle is there for a reason.

The parking lot rearrangement also makes sense though I think two of the cars should have had a category of their own. What’s really nice is to see them all neatly within the lines. Most of them anyway.

Really, he could have done better with the cars now that look more closely.

My 3 year old granddaughter visited a fire station today. This is an account of the conversation with her Mom on the way home:

I asked her what she should do if her clothes are on fire, and she said “put on different clothes and put the other ones in the hamper!” When I asked her if she’d like to be a firefighter one day, she said “no thank you, I’m going to be Sleeping Beauty because I already have that dress.”

*Am I the only person who cannot manage to order a Pizza Hut pizza online? I’m beginning to think they want to be able to say they offer online ordering, but are actively discouraging anyone from ever using it.

*Speaking of pizza — a quick perusal of our buying habits over the past year says that this family orders pizza on average of once a month, and that approximately 25% of these orders coincide with having company. Yeah, I am just that lazy.

*Is it the least we can do? Buy Local, Act Evil. Just a thought here… but, if I buy the best that I can for the least amount of money, is that not also ecologically sound? (Note: I’m not saying I do this — see cheap cheese.)

*Tundra. Just go, click, and scroll. That’s what I plan on doing for the next hour or so.

Until yesterday, this was “the case of the disappearing cell phone battery” but now we are even more puzzled and in even greater need of someone of Nancy Drew’s sleuthing abilities.

My husband is known for many things, but not for his new-fangled electronic gadget knowledge. A little over a week ago he brought his cell-phone to me and impatiently and petulantly asked why it wouldn’t turn on.

My first response was “duh, the battery is dead” so I plugged it in to his charger, but didn’t hear the cutely annoying ditty his phone always played when plugged in. And, there was no “charging” indicator.

Drawing on my years of electronic gadget knowledge, I decided that we should try the time-honored “trick” of pulling the battery out and putting it back in again. But, being a physically mechanically challenged individual, I couldn’t get the cover off the battery.

Where brute force is required to remove something, no one tops my husband (once a Marine always a Marine) and he said, “Give that to me.” So, I did and he got the cover off. I watched him do it.

And then he said, “There’s no battery in here.” Of course, I thought he simply didn’t recognize the shape and form of modern day batteries, expecting to find a 9-volt in there.

But, when he held the phone up where I could see it better, I discovered to my amazement that he was right! There was no battery in the phone!

With the power of a flash of lightning, I immediately knew that the lack of a battery was why the phone was NOT working. I’m amazing that way.

So, I ask dearest hubby why he took the battery out. He assures me he did not remove the battery. Then… because we are both old and doddering fools with less than perfect eyesight and reflexes… we figure the battery must have popped out when he took the cover off.

We were sitting in my office (otherwise known as the cave with the internet connection) when this took place and I’m a bit embarrassed to note that said battery could have popped off and been hidden anywhere.

Yep, my “office” defines clutter, trash, disarray, chaos, confusion, disorder, mess, litter, hodgepodge, and general mess. Being rational people, we figured that any place with more than an inch of undisturbed dust was not a likely spot for the battery to have landed. Thus our search area was somewhat defined.

We looked behind and underneath furniture, inside crates, laundry baskets, and other containers of “stuff” and we didn’t find the battery. We did find a discarded phone with a battery of the same size fitting the same charger and got the phone working again.

Yet, we remained puzzled. We ruminated over the time lapsed since the last call from or to that phone and who might have had access to it during that time. We called the one person we thought might know of a new trend of stealing batteries from phones… and endured the derision of the common sense thinking that suggested they would simply steal the entire phone.

And, we carefully examined the list of pranksters we know. Oh, yes… there are people we know who would delight in seeing us puzzled, bemused, confused, bewildered, baffled, rattled, and addled.

The worst part of this was that my dear loving untrusting husband considered me the prime suspect in this case. Maybe it was not quite so often, but it seemed to me that he asked at least seven times a day if I was yet ready to tell him where the battery was.

I swore, upon pain of everlasting blisters on my left little toe, that I had nothing to do with the disappearance of his cell phone battery. Finally, I think he came to believe me.

The most logical explanation he could come up with otherwise was that one of us was sleep-walking and had, um… perhaps, accidentally removed the battery. Except that he obviously thought that since I like sleeping so much, it must have been me doing the sleep-walking.

Not a chance, I countered. If I really wanted to mess with him I’d have hidden his keys and glasses. He countered that was silly because he couldn’t find those anyway. I had to concede he had a good point.

On the way home from this meeting… Mr. Coordinated (aka dear hubby) drops his cell phone in a public restroom. Now, he swears he saw it fall… and that that back did not fall off. He states, for the record, that when he was through with his business he put the cell phone back in it’s holder and that the battery cover was not loose.

A very few minutes later while on the interstate, he tries to make a call. Nothing happens. The phone is deader than a door nail. Knowing himself not to be a virtuous battery charger, he plugs the phone into the car charger.

Uh Oh. No melodious response, no lights, no cute graphic of a battery charging. Being a cautious man, he pulls over before he takes the cover off to discover there is — again – no battery in his phone.

Obviously this is not a fluke, as there is no sign of good luck to be found in this mystery.

Upon finding that a replacement battery cost $48 (since we’d run out of superflous phone batteries), my darling decided to purchase a new phone complete with battery for $29.95.

If the battery in this new phone stays where it’s supposed to be, I supposed we’ll have to conclude that the other (refurbished, mind you) phone was haunted in some way.

UPDATE: One of the batteries has appeared in the comments. This is truly amazing, folks.

My mental clock runs 7 hours late. I won’t get into how my physiological clock runs other than to say it’s not exactly on time.

The mental clock was programmed by working for years in a 24 hour industry. Three shifts, and the last one started at 11 pm. Can we agree that it would be a mathematical and bookkeeping nightmare to be accurate and calculate the hours and pay spanning two different days rather than one?

So, a day — for minimal distress and the payroll bookkeeper’s sanity started at 7 am. Of course, a simple solution would be to start the work day at midnight, but… frankly that would be too damn simple and still confusing for the workers who headed off to work on the 2nd day of the month but didn’t clock in until the 3rd.

Also, it’s just best to not have shifts end at noon or midnight. There’s always that 59 minute question, is there not? Does morning end at 11:59 am? Does afternoon start at 12:01? Frankly, every 24 hour business would lose 2 minutes of work per day. That adds up to an entire 12 hour shift being lost every year per worker.

Business could not function under that loss, since it would be added to the 3 hours per 8 hour shift lost to surfing the internet and general goofing off.

What should be understood is whether I finally finish this post at 11:59 on Saturday, September 19 or 4:02 am on Sunday, September 20, it is still a Saturday night post.

This manner of time-keeping also comes in handy for those who have had instilled in them the idea that drinking on Sunday is a bad thing. Using this method, Saturday night parties can last much longer. An there’s no reason why one can’t drink until 2 or 3 am, then have a leisurely breakfast at Waffle House and still grab a few hours sleep before church.

Don’t think I can’t sense the rumblings of some of you disagreeing out there. Rationalization, you say? Hell yeah! Why else did we evolve big brains?

Rather, what socks are explains their behavior. As recently as 30 years ago, it was assumed dryers erratically connected with a parallel universe and socks went randomly back and forth, most being destroyed somehow in the transfer.

I have come to the conclusion that socks are fermions, and that this explains much of the behavior of disappearing socks. (There may be other factors at play, of course) Clearly they are not bosons; you cannot make two socks occupy the same space: Put two socks on the same foot and they wll be layered, and there is a finite number you can fit into a washing machine or a dryer. Socks worn in the normal fashion are distinguishable by being on the left or right foot (or hand, in the case of the sock puppet effect; I won’t be discussing the very interesting Lamb-Chop-shift one can observe). The individual socks in a pair, however, are indistinguishable and they must have an antisymmetric wave function and thus obey Fermi-Dirac statistics and follow the Pauli exclusion principle.

What better place on the web to visit while having a beer than Behind The Stick? To make it even better, What are the odds? comments contain a nice list of movies to put on your Netflix list for future Friday nights.

Leadfoot is likely a genetic disorder found in most humans, though it’s precise location has not yet been documented. However, humans have much more information about the genetic code of a 1993 Honda Civic and it’s generally accepted that without unusual genetic alteration, you won’t clock one at 137 mph. (via Drudge, via Althouse)

I once owned a 1993 Ford Taurus SHO, a pretty red one. I’ll have to look through my photos, but I don’t remember one of the car. But I loved that car. 220 HP compared to the 160 HP of a 1993 Honda Civic.

If I remember correctly, the highest speed on the SHO’s odometer was 140 mph. (NOTE: My children and any law enforcement officers must stop reading at this point.) I never pegged it, but only fear stopped me. There’s a great stretch of I-49 where you can see a long long way and it ends in a very steep exit. When there were no other cars in sight, I would floorboard my little red SHO and let her go. I usually got to the exit at around 130 mph and chickened out. The car would definitely have gone faster.

My husband maybe got the car up a little faster racing (again on the then relatively deserted I-49), of all cars, a Hyundai Sonata. At that speed, it didn’t feel like the tires were actually in steady contact with the roadway. We were, um… flying. Anyway, he chickened out then too saying “Our income depends on my CDL and we can’t afford a ticket!” The SHO “felt” best and drove best at 90 mph. I don’t think a cop would ever have accepted that defense, but it was true!

The only reason I’m not still driving my little red SHO is because the AC went kaplooie. We live in Louisiana. The estimate for repairing the A/C was about $4000 which was absolutely frickin’ ridiculous. My Dad was about to trade in his 1993 Sedan Deville which carried about the same Blue Book value as my SHO, so we switched cars and he traded in the SHO.

I’d probably still be driving the 93 Cadillac if someone hadn’t t-boned it in 2003. I’d finally learned that if I wanted to pass someone in that underpowered V6 hulkmobile, it had to be downhill and downwind. It did get excellent gas mileage. It was also difficult to keep on the road because of the strange steering system. Yes, I could make a U-turn on a two lane highway without using both shoulders, but the “drift and float” was horrible.

With the insurance check in hand, I went used car shopping. I almost got a 1999 Audi, but researching maintenance costs made me doubt it’s utility. After shopping for two weeks, I settled on another Cadillac, but this 1998 model has a Northstar engine. Mmm… horsepower! I can pass! I can merge! Oh yeah, baby all that is worth it even if I do have to back up to turn around on a two lane highway. Sixty thousand miles later, I’m still pretty happy with it.

We haven’t bought a new vehicle since 1991 – an F150 with over 400,000 miles on and still running. But… for the first time in AGES, I want a new car – a 2010 Taurus SHO. I want. Barack, Daddy, anyone?

I’ve been tagged with a meme. A very non-important meme. (Is that redundant?) Cassandra at Villainous Company calls it a crappy meme, but I’ll not go there.

First, the Rules:

1. Link to the person that tagged you.
Done that.

2. Post the rules on your blog.
Done that.

3. Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
Coming up below.

4. Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
Do I know six people????

5. Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.

Now all I have to do is try to find six non-important things or habits or quirks to tell you about myself…

1. I wear Crocs. I realize that some of you may find this disgustingly non-important and block my ISP from ever accessing your site again. But, isn’t it important to know who your “REAL” friends are? Maybe this is not so non-important, but I’m not deleting it because I have to think of 5 more things.

2. My fear of crowds extends to blogs that consistently have over 100 comments on every post.

3. I drink way too much coffee.

4. There are ten small post-it notes hanging off the bottom of my monitors. One of them reads “Insane Complexity” and I have no idea why I jotted that down and put it there.

5. I cut my waffles on the grid. I don’t understand why some people think this is strange.

6. Breaking the rules is fun, so I’m not going to list the sixth thing.

Yes, I finally realized I wasn’t going to kick this head cold/sinus infection/allergy/bronchitis shit with Mucinex and Zicam. I went to the doctor today. I fit nicely into the chorus of coughs and sniffing in the waiting room.

Finally, into the exam room where the blood pressure machine malfunctions and my arm is squeezed three times. Amazingly after all that, my blood pressure was fine. I had a fine nurse who was really apologetic about it all.

Then, in walks the doctor who stands directly in front of me and stares directly into my eyes and says, “I’m so sick of snot.” Then he told me that it wasn’t all bad because at least he knew what to do. We then had a truly disgusting conversation about the volume, consistency, and coloration of my particular snot. We actually discuss, with no seriousness whatsoever, the palate of snot and what sort of artwork it could be the medium for.

I was one of the more interesting snot patients he’d had that day (or so he told me) in that I had two segregated colors of snot. I really think he was just humoring me because I laughed at his snot jokes. He made up his mind what I needed — a snot shot and two snot pills, one for the obvious infection and one for the accompanying allergy.

The worst part of this visit was that every time I laughed, I broke into a spasm of coughing. This continued all the way home as I contemplated the gallery opening of the Snotty Series, A Study in Natural Media.